Ariella Wasn't Kicked Out of Boarding School
by en flor
Summary: Why we don't see much of Ariella. Crossover fic.
1. Year 1

Ingrid was six when Ariella received her first owl from Hogwarts.

She remembers this day as the last of its kind. One of the very last she and her family enjoys completely and fully together before it all falls apart.

Her father goes out for ice cream, because magic or no, her mother can't cook. And an occasion as special as this one means sundaes for dinner.

Ariella was beside herself.

They made a mess of the kitchen table, laughed, told stories, and of course made Ariella re-enact opening the letter, again and again and again.

Ingrid's sides hurt from laughing so hard, for every time Ariella recreated the scene, it became more dramatic.

"This is . . . this is . . . no, I cannot believe it!!! Surely not! But it is!!! Dearest Mother! Beloved Father! This is _not_ the letter from Aunt Nora, but instead a correspondence from Hogwarts! I am to come right away! Oh darling Ingrid, how I shall miss you!"

Ingrid laughed at her emphatic gestures and exaggerated tones, but at this point, it became hard to tell if _all_ her tears were of joy and mirth. _I'll miss you too._

Part of what drove the impromptu celebration was the sheer surprise of it all. Ariella had yet to demonstrate any magical aptitude. One of the hallmarks of a young witch or wizard was inadvertent displays of magic, generally manifesting as part of the pubescent process. Yet her entire childhood had seemingly progressed without incident. And although it was pretty well known that wizards begot wizards, and squibs were quite rare, Ariella was more than prepared to lead the muggle life of her Father, and eventually pursue medicine. _Magic does not make me a better or lesser person._ Her parents lived this truth, and she had prepared herself for either outcome.

"Still," she thought, "not even once. Marilla says that all the first years have stories about turning their frogs yellow or somesuch thing."

"Well honey, maybe it was stress." her father mused, "Whether you were conscious of it or not, I'm sure this weighed heavily somewhere in the back of your mind. After all, most of your friends have heard back from their schools of choice, magical or not."

"I'm afraid I have to disagree Graham." Mrs. Third paused momentarily, feeding the honeypepper bush one last spoonful of gooey caramel, "Stress normally exacerbates the situation, rather than depressing it. It's not unheard of, but it is unusual that Ariella hasn't executed any magic at all."

"Yes she has."

"I know! And every book I've ever read says that . . ." Ariella suddenly spun on her sister, "Wait, what was that?"

All three turned to Ingrid, who was studiously making a jenga-style pile of cherries on her banana split, and not paying particular attention to the conversation.

"Sweetheart, what do you mean? That Ariella's been stressed, or that Ariella has performed magic?"

"Well both I guess," said Ingrid, stopping and turning to face her mother, "It has been happening a whole bunch more lately."

Ariella stared incredulously, "What on Earth are you talking about? When?"

"When you're asleep. You make the room change colors." She shrugged to convey that this was no big deal. Their home was full of magic, with things much more impressive than multicolor bedsheets and wallpaper. "Like every night."

Mr. and Mrs. Third stared at each other. Then at Ariella. Then Ingrid.

"SNEAK!" shrieked Ariella, launching out of her chair, "I'm so going to get you!"

The girls flew (no not literally) giggling round the table, ending the chase only when Mr. Third snatched up the stickiest of the two, while Mrs. Third grabbed Ariella around the waist.

They left the kitchen a disaster, retiring to the only part of the house completely free of magical objects: the den.

It was kept this way so that Mr. Third could successfully use his electronics: camcorder, cell phone, computer, and television. For wizards, it was extremely convenient that magical interference usually prevented them from being 'outed' via videotape. For their muggle spouses, this was often a point of great frustration.

"Woody Allen Movie Marathon," Mr. Third announced, trudging up the stairs with Ingrid on his shoulders, "and our school prefect shall choose the first number."

"Daa_aad_, only fifth years can be prefects!"

Mrs. Third's laugh rang like a crystal bell through the corridor.

Their parents fall asleep midway through the second film (The Purple Rose of Cairo) but the girls are wide awake, physically exhausted but too excited to drift off into slumber.

"What if you have class with Harry Potter?"

"Not possible. Marilla said Harry was a third year, which means he'll be in his fourth when I start. But there's a good chance I'll see him."

Ingrid shivered. Most of their mother's family rested in a graveyard just South of Cardiff.

"I can't wait till we go to Diagon Alley. Fortescue's has way better ice cream than the Tesco," she murmured, "and we can look at brooms. The Quidditch World Cup is this summer, so I bet they'll mark down the Firebolts to capitalize on that."

"Won't they have those at school?" asked Ingrid, "I thought first years got flying lessons."

"No way. Firebolts cost more galleons than a month's worth of ice cream. But we do get lessons." Here, she mimed a flying motion, "And I'll teach you everything I know as soon as I come back for Christmas break."

Ingrid smiled. Flying actually came quite naturally to her, as she had convieniently found out one afternoon in the garage. On mom's old Cleansweep. Now she made an effort to practice in secret maybe once a week. She confessed all this to Ariella.

"You really are a sneak!" she stage whispered, poking her sibling, "I'll bet you end up in Slytherin!"

Ariella had received her very own copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ from her mother on her 11th birthday. 'Just in case.'

"No!" Ingrid countered defiantly, "Hufflepuff, like Mom."

Ariella smiled, "You know, I'm kinda hoping for Ravenclaw. But I'll bet two sickles you end up a proud Gryffindor."

"Are they any good?"

"Brave. Godric was a champion of justice."


	2. Year 2

"So . . . did Mum really quit the Wizengamot?"

Ariella looked up from _An Anthology of 18__th__ Century Charms_. "Nooo . . ." she drew out slowly, ponderously. "Nothing's happened yet. That's all talk at the moment." She thumbed through the next few pages, "She was just angry that Dumbledore was let go. Wanted to leave in solidarity, you see. But since Harry's got a trial in a few days, I think she'll at least stay on till that's done with."

"But why was he let go?" Ingrid put down Ariella's old copy of _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. _"Or was he sacked at all? Did he quit? No one will say, and there are all these rumors—"

Ariella folded down the top of a page, skimming its contents. "Don't listen to them. Rumors are just that: rumors. There's no accounting for stupid or ignorant people Ingrid," she grabbed a pen and began scrawling down notes in the margins. "Now go downstairs and pinch a bit of—" she ran her finger across the ledger, "---hedona powder. And a Corundian snail shell. Top shelf of the downstairs cabinet, I think."

"Why?" Ingrid puffed, already heading out. "It's not like you can _do _anything anyway . . ." her voice trailed off as she plodded away.

When she returned, however, Ariella had diagrammed some symbols into the rug, and was mouthing something under her breath. She made a movement not unlike a conch swirl with her left hand, holding the book in her right.

"What are we doing Ariella?" Ingrid asked with renewed interest. "You know you're not allowed. It's against the law. You could get expelled or something."

"I know, I read about it." Ariella said, while tying back her hair. "But they can't really tell _who's_ casting the spell, just w_here_ it's cast and if there are muggles around. That's just how the spell works. In homes with both under- and of- age wizards, they kind of rely on the adults for enforcement." She took the ingredients from Ingrid, "Now gimme your bracelet too."

Ingrid undid the clasp and handed it over. "But Ariella this is serious. It's not just one of Mom and Dad's rules. It's the law. We're gonna be in so much trouble if you get caught."

"Firstly, I won't. You'll be standing watch in the stairwell. Secondly, you won't. I'm doing the magic, not you." She proceeded to dust the bracelet thoroughly in the hedona powder, and dropped the shell in a tall glass of water. "I take full responsibility for everything that happens here."

"But I helped. And I know, and I'm not telling."

Ariella smiled at her sister. "Ok then. But if something happens later and I am caught, you have to lie and say you had no idea." She leaned over and hugged her sister. "Now go. This shouldn't take long---maybe five minutes, but give me ten. Don't let them up here. Do anything. And if you can't stop them then at least make a lot of noise. Ok?"

"Ok."

Ingrid closed the door. Her mother was parsing through some paperwork in the kitchen. Not Ministry paperwork, but the _other_ kind. For something called Order. But Order of what? She'd asked once before only to be rebuffed. It seemed like nowadays this was how everyone responded to her questions. Deflect. Refute. Deny. Change the subject.

Her father was a bit more sympathetic. Although he refused to elaborate, he did say not to worry about it, since she wasn't in any Order per se. Rather, Mrs. Third was just 'helping some friends.'

"She's a good resource. Your Mom is just . . . answering a few questions."

Ingrid had wanted to ask if this meant her Mom was a spy, but what kind of spy would she be anyway? Members of the Department of Mysteries never talk about their job, not even to their families, so if she's not talking about her work, what could she possibly be telling them?

Mr. Third was down the hall, asleep in the den. He'd apparently nodded off at his desk, writing an email to his brother in the States. She was tempted to go peek, and see what kind of email takes over an hour to write, but she was a girl on a mission.

So the question was this: who is the greater threat? Was her father the greater danger, asleep but only four doors down the hall? Or her mother, who was downstairs and awake, but also very focused on her papers. She paced in place before deciding to just stay put. Really, this was the best place to run interference for either. She'd just ask a question from her transfiguration book---

Which she'd left inside.

She heard her mother get up, the chair scraping along the linoleum. That meant she was almost finished, and would be sending off her owls from the back porch.

_If we didn't share a room, _she thought_, I could go get some other book from my shelf._

She decided to peek inside and see how far along Ariella was.

" . . . AL reverso!" Ariella's wand was repeating the gesture she'd seen before, but what Ingrid noticed first was that her bracelet was on fire. Bright orange, snaking flames. But the fire was following the hedona powder off of the bracelet and into the levitating snail shell, directed by Ariella's hand. Once all the flames were inside, the shell snapped shut, and plopped into the water, sinking to the bottom.

Ariella held her pose a moment longer, and then released a breath that she seemed to have been holding. She flopped over on her back, tossing her wand onto a stack of books near their dresser.

"Ariella," Ingrid breathed, "That was amazing! I can't believe you did that! Did . . . whatever it is . . . work?"

Her sister looked up. "Go get some matches and we'll see." She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair. "No owls? No parents?"

"Nope and nope," said Ingrid, fishing out a box from the top drawer. "What do I do?"

Ariella took a teddy bear off the bed, and put the bracelet around his paw. Then she struck a match and held it to his nose.

Ingrid just barely held back a yelp, but watched intently as the bear failed to really burn, even after six more tries. Sure, he _looked_ like he was on fire, positively engulfed in raging flames, but when you blew them out he remained unscathed, just unaccountably wet. Like they were flames of water, not fire.

Ariella nodded in satisfaction, then took her sisters wrist and fastened the bracelet on tightly, using the smallest wrung.

"So . . . is he really back?"

Ingrid's wide eyes stared at the bracelet. She didn't need to clarify who she meant.

Ariella looked forlornly at her sister. "I'm afraid so."

It was the first straight answer Ingrid had heard in weeks, but she found that she really didn't feel much better.


End file.
